Places from memory

visiting Ooty, the nearest town

One weekend a month - we'd get to visit Ooty, the nearest town, on an 'outing'. It was a real treat...
Here are some of the places I remember off the top my head.
* King Star Bakery
* Mohan's Department Store
* Higginbotham's
* Shinkow's - the Chinese Restaurant
* Kurinji's (mmmm....paper dosas...)
* Blue Hills Lodge.
h/t to Yohaan for the last three. His choices at the BHL: ceylon paratha and chicken curry.

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Fun and Games at School

May 11, 2010

It happened during a school trip to that big town across the mountain pass: Ooty - and a stop at its legendary King Star Bakery (No Branch Anywhere).

There he was. With a friend.

We bonded over the éclairs, and drooled over the japonais cakes. He was cute and around my age...and I just knew we would have enjoyed Black Forest cakes together. His piercing blue eyes looked into mine as we shared our names and those of our schools.

Lovedale[name of school tactfully redacted]

Perfection. Like one of King Star's chocolates. Until blue-eyed one turned to his friend and muttered sneeringly: Lawrencians...darkies.

I almost threw my chocolate éclair at him.

I remembered just in time that I was at King Star Bakery and to waste an offering like that would have been a complete travesty. A waste of superb cream filling.

You had to earn the right to be bashed about the head with a King Star éclair. The snarky kid with the piercing blue eyes just wasn't worth it. So I bumped him hard as I walked out through the narrow doorway...accidentally on purpose, of course. And in a ladylike way. And then we beat that school at the next inter-school competition. Revenge...best served on the playing fields.

As for the éclair, it was simply....divine. Judging by the picture, King Star remains the same size it used to be. A store that is small in size but huge on taste. L-shaped counters enclosing delicious treats and...oh, I can’t type any more without visions of cream horns and éclairs. I wonder if they ship overseas?

May 05, 2010

When you are in boarding school, pocket money (or an allowance) becomes a treasured commodity. The money was sent to the local State Bank of India office each semester by our trusting and long-suffering parents.

Under the watchful eyes of our teachers, we were allowed to withdraw a little 'pocko' each week...coin that was used to buy non-essential supplies (like toothpaste) and splurge on the critical..like candy cigarettes from Pichees and Japonaise cakes from King Star bakery in Ooty.

And as Anu reminded me, pocko even came with its own song. Join in if you remember this one...

The pocko that they give us, they say it's mighty fine...They give us 100 paisa and take back 99...Oh my - I'm tired of this Lovedale life!

(insert name of teacher) We want to go...Where the he** do you want to go?(name) We want to go home....!!(Ed notes: wait...where did the 99 paisa go?? Taxes? Also...pardon the swear)

Peppering this stroll down Nonsense Verse Lane...here are a few others you might remember from my recent post on Facebook. These obscure lines will make no sense to anyone outside of Girl's School...but if you are an insider, you'll know both the rhyme and the steps. I would bet my last chhota bun on it...

Red
shoes, yellow laces...up and down the marketplaces. Penny for you,
penny for me - slip the lock and turn the key...<and repeat>

h/t Anu Menon: "There was a girl...a tall and thin and fair, her hair, her hair, was the delicate color of ginger"

ht/ Deepa Alexander: "A,...farmer got drunk and he packed up his trunk and he Left, Left, Left
his wife and his 49 children in starving condition without any
gingerbread Left, Left, Serves him jolly well Right Right" (Ed note: wince at having 49 kids)

And one from bath time:I'm Popeye the sailor man. Full stop. I live in a caravan. Full stop. I
open the door and fall on the floor. I'm the Popeye the sailor man.

ETA:Thanks again to Anu for this next one!

It's a charming number...from your bloodthirsty - yet delightfully refined - neighbors at Girls School. I remember singing it at the top of my voice while headed to and from school on the bus.

Come to LawrenceCome to LawrenceIts a place of miseryThere's a sign board at
the corner saying welcome on to thee. Don't believe it Don't believe itIt is all a
pack of liesIf it wasn't for the teachers it would be a paradise.Build a bonfire Build a bonfirePut the teachers on the topPut the prefects in
the middle and burn the ruddy lot.(My final Ed note: I was a prefect in my final year. Goodbye cruel world - make it a good bonfire)

ETA - noch einmal! More contributions, gleefully accepted...

Bhakti Chuganee and Sudha Chandrashekar shared this rather ghoulish memory with each remembering one verse.

One fine morning, in the middle of the nightTwo dead boys, got up to fight.Back to back, they faced each other.Took out their swords, and shot each other.Two deaf policemen, hearing the noiseCame inside and shot the dead boysIf you don't believe my lie is trueAsk the blind man who saw it too!

Saaz Aggarwal sends in a couple:

Once a PapaMet a MamaUnder a coconut treeSaid the PapaTo the MamaWill you marry me?

April 21, 2010

I tiptoed into the dark bathroom around midnight, fumbling for my flashlight just as the big black spider fell softly on my hand. Beady eyes gleamed balefully into mine. We both quivered, shrieked, and flew in different directions. I ran right into a web.

Let's set the scene, shall we?Every year, the entire school would head out to camp for a week. Quite apart from it being a break from our books, I suspect it also gave many of our long-suffering support staff a welcome break. Lovedale, despite being co-educational, primly sorted boys and girls into separate camps. (Ed note: That was, of course, to ensure we didn't learn about the birds n' bees until much, much, later.)

And so it was that we found ourselves 'camping' in an assortment of tea plantations and palatial homes in the countryside, lent to the school by their unsuspecting owners.

25 girls staying over for a week trampling all over my flowerbeds? Sure! here are the keys. There's no electricity and don't forget to pick up the spider when you leave...

Were we roughing it? It was a generous definition...we were neither outside nor in tents*. But oh the undeniable agony of having no electricity...and having to sleep on bedrolls on the floor! Spoiled? Us?

September/October was the perfect time to go camping at school. The sun invariably shone, the air was warm...yet crisp - with more than a hint of eucalyptus in the air. More often than not, we went on lorries – gaggles (giggles?) of girls, bedrolls, kit bags and packs of food. They were colorfully painted and had wooden floor beds, wooden seats on either side and a wooden rear ramp that pulled up with a chain. They never came with shock absorbers...when the lorry bounced, you bounced...and held on for dear life. That didn't stop us singing...fractionally out of tune.

On this trip, we were headed for a home in Coonoor - about 30 minutes away.

The stars shone that evening and the huge bonfire crackled and popped as we sat around eating dinner. Which, mercifully, had been cooked by someone else. As we sat down with plates of steaming rice, dal, and papadums, the wind started to pick up. Quite literally as it turns out...many of us chased our airy papadums around the dusty garden before capturing them.

The bonfire story was about young Capt. Lamb, a handsome British officer who lived in Coonoor in the 19th century and helped clear the way to Lamb's Rock - a scenic outlook. He fell in love with the prettiest girl in Madras Cantonment and she with him, said our storyteller - the caretaker of the house. The hushed crowd listened as the caretaker told of the dashing of Lamb's hopes when she cheated on him and married someone else.

Ah, Amore! Ah, Happiness! Oh, Depression!

Capt. Lamb fell prey to the latter and one misty evening, rode out to 'his' rock. He stared thoughtfully over the edge at the chasm below and then, just as thoughtfully, rode back some distance, blindfolded his horse and rode him off the cliff at a gallop.The storyteller's voice dropped an octave.

It is said their ghosts are still heard riding through the thick mists at Lamb's Rock....

As we silently absorbed the story, the caretaker looked right above our heads and jumped to his feet, snapping to attention. Captain Lamb! he cried.

A chorus of startled screams was quickly followed by a mass exodus as everyone rushed to the safety of the house. All except a few, including one girl thoughtfully munching a dusty papadum.

That horse never really had a chance to say neigh nay, did he? What a tangled web we weave...

* We did, of course go camping in tents as part of the Duke of Edinburgh program. But that is another heavy canvas tent of a story. This post has been edited to change the picture. The picture you see now was taken in Ooty by OL Phil Verghis.

April 07, 2010

The group of young yogis stared at us that evening with all the earnestness befitting Serious Spiritual Seekers. Their leader took off his glasses, polished them on his shirt and put them back on. "Well," he said into a mystified silence, "if this is done right, you should be able to bounce. And even fly..."

Ah. That cleared it all up.

<Break for a meditative pause> Lovedale often drew faculty and visitors from other countries. Some came for a semester - as teachers, others for a brief visit, a show and a quick departure. Each visit provided a fascinating glimpse into another land...another culture. Or in some cases, like this one, held up an equally fascinating mirror to our own. </reflection>

It was, in retrospect, one of the more curious evenings we had in school. Inside the Green Room at Girl's School, the windows were open and the patterned curtains fluttered in the breeze. The baby grand piano was pushed to one side and thin mats placed on the floor. Incense filled the air as the followers of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi sat down and solemnly crossed their legs. A cough from the peanut gallery of skeptical schoolgirls punctuated the silence.

*Koff!*

Sorry, that would have been me.

The leader cleared his throat and launched into his speech. He spoke warmly of Transcendental Meditation and the impact it had had on all their lives. The group nodded their heads in unison. Their technique, he said, was TM-Sidhi and first, we were all going to meditate together.

We were? We were.

"Pick a word that has meaning for you," suggested an acolyte with a soft drawl, " and that will become your personal mantra. Don't tell anyone what your word is - it is for you alone. If you remain still - that word might simply appear. Ready? Begin..."

In that solitude, I selected my word. Palgova - a deliciously sweet treat from the ice-cream stand down the road. And in fairness, it did just pop into my thoughts.

"Now close your eyes," murmured the saffron-clad aspirant. "Take a deep breath and focus. Focus on your mantra and let it take over your body. Feel it fill your senses..."

In the ensuing hush, I found myself being eaten by a giant palgova.

"How did that make you feel?" asked the leader, when the session ended.

Like I should have picked a different word.

Let's talk about flying, continued the leader.

Flying? The evening suddenly perked up and a fresh wind rustled through the room.

TM teaches its followers to, well, fly through Transcendental Consciousness. It's a three step process, moving through hopping, floating and flying as the leader was about to demonstrate.

Cross-legged in a lotus position, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths as he focused on his own mantra.

He leaned forward. Weleaned forward.

His face took on a peculiar intensity, turning red as he strained his muscles including his core and sphincter. His buttocks twitched.

We held our collective breath.

He bounced.

Once, twice, thrice...before he breathlessly sank onto the mat. "That," he panted, "is the first step toward true consciousness. Now, if you don't mind, I need the bathroom...".

The crowd parted in a giggling hurry.

I'm not sure we left that evening with a greater understanding of TM. Other than the recognition that Hinduism when exported, may inadvertently miss something in translation. And the recognition that if TM were a frequent flyer program, it would take forever to reach Executive Platinum.

March 24, 2010

...one either loved or hated Elocution -those annoyingly frequent evenings when, if you had drawn a short straw, you had to stand up at a lectern in Large Hall and bellow deliver a poem, or a speech, from memory.

The very first speech I had to deliver at school was at that dreaded venue - on Gandhi's birthday (Gandhi Jayanti). I was a shrimp, in fourth grade and not very tall. I was in fact, far shorter than the lectern, and did not know I was supposed to head there when speaking. My fellow speakers and I were seated just below the stage and when it was my turn - I stood up and, sans microphone, delivered an abbreviated version of 'The Light Has Gone Out of Our Lives'. Did I mention I was a wee bit short? There was sudden consternation in the hall...people could hear a loud voice, but couldn't see the speaker. Red-faced from the effort, I grimly strode on to the finish.

An unintended consequence of all that rote learning? Many speeches and poems are now embedded in the dusty recesses of my memory. In no particular order, I can still recall:

Warning (although I am still unsure why I delivered this poem about growing old...when I was a pre-teen!)

Mark Antony's monologue was a go-to speech for many because it wasn't very long. That was a good thing, especially if you forgot to prepare and were frantically looking for something at the last-minute. I'd like to assure Shakespeare that we heard that speech with metronomic regularity and if he were still around, Antony could have had my ears as well.

For my money, one of the more dramatic moments came during an evening of Hindi Elocution. India's national language often requires a certain level of verbal dexterity. Never one to be intimidated, a classmate once took on a poem about the Rani of Jhansi. Laxmibhai, the Queen of Jhansi is a legendary figure in the annals of Indian history - having led her troops against the British during the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 before dying in battle in 1858. Indian poetess Subhadra Kumari Chauhan wrote a poem befitting a warrior queen and this....this was my classmate's selection.

Let's call my classmate - Kavi (poet), shall we? He walked up to the lectern, took a deep breath and powered into the first verse:

The thrones shook and royalties scowled
Old India was re-invigorated with new youth
People realised the value of lost freedom
Everybody was determined to throw the foreigners out
The old sword glistened again in 1857
This story we heard from the mouths of Bundel bards
Like a man she fought, she was the Queen of Jhansi

Kavi's voice thundered at the first lines, sank to a whisper in the middle - almost to the point where we strained to hear him. All of a sudden, we shot upright in our seats. His voice cracked like a whip at the last line while managing to drop several octaves at the same time and dragging out the last two words for a few seconds. It was meant to be dramatic and it was. Ever the critics however, his classmates dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.

March 02, 2010

It's quite an elastic swing from history in the previous post to paper pellets and rubber band catapults, but then again - why not?

Do you remember how to make a pellet? Here's aquickrefresher: take a thin strip of paper and roll it very tight. Fold it in half to make a 'V' shape. Et Voila! That was hard - wasn't it? Now all you do is take an elastic (rubber) band, loop it over your thumb and forefinger, pick up the pellet and slot it in and aim at an unsuspecting victim. It works even better if you dip the pellet in ink. {Kids - do NOT try this at home, or really on anyone, anywhere! The pellets - tend to sting}

How do I know this? The Paper Pellet Wars - fought when we were in the sixth grade. A meeting of two inky armies - the boys versus the girls. In this very corridor and the open area right next to it. This is right outside classroom 6-B in Prep School, my classroom.

What sparked the fight? I have absolutely no recollection. What I do remember are pellets flying all over the place, liberally decorating both our school uniforms and the walls around us.

November 09, 2009

...I was recently browsing Farrokh Chothia's excellent collection of pictures from Lovedale when I came across this - a picture that wafted me back to Prep School in an instant. The Assembly Room for grades 4-6.

Swirling, vivid memories of daily assemblies, plays, and elocutionsin front of thousandshundreds a roomful of people. Sardonic coughs punctuating the silence, shuffling feet shushed by sibilant whispers. Also known as a time of intense public humiliation as one stood, gripped the lectern and tried to clearly articulate Oh, Captain, My Captain without a microphone while trying to quell wobbly knees and an intense need to use the loo.

Multitasking? We invented the word.

I'm not quite sure what the TV is doing on the stage, but that's the approximate place we used to stand and deliver. I'm amused to see the piano apparently hasn't moved an inch in decades. I'd think I'd hate to dust underneath. Then again, it might reveal a treasure trove of artifacts...

This stage was also where we practiced several plays. Voices from the past - I can almost hear the Wicked Queen from Snow White singing...:

Magic Mirror, on the wallTell me who is the fairest of them all...?

Followed by the Mirror's laconic response and an ear-splitting shriek from the Queen:

Lady Queen you are fair and tallFew can your charms outdoBut Princess Snow White, fair and sweetIs lovelier far than you

Oh, what the heck? Let's step up to the lectern one more time - just for old-times sake. Can you see it in between the two rows? Now, place it on the stage and clear your throat... <<<koff!!>>

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on -- he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

March 02, 2009

Counterpane pulled tight. Envelope corners pulled just right. Towel neatly draped across the headboard. Yawning, I pulled back the counterpane and snuggled under the covers.

Before promptly disappearing from view in a tangle of blankets and a chorus of giggles from the rest of the dorm.

I'd just been apple-pied.

As I gingerly picked myself up off the floor...I had just one question. Why did we call them apple-pie beds anyway?

There was nothing even remotely related to the culinary arts about this classic dorm-room prank. There were variations on a theme; one version involved removing all the slats from a bed and making the bed back up again. An unsuspecting victim (me) would then climb in and suddenly find...well...that there was no support, before crashing unceremoniously to the ground. This was apple-pie a la mode.

The regular version involved removing the top sheet and folding the lower sheet back on itself. Predictably, the sleeper could only get their legs so far. Regular apple-pie beds could be tweaked with the careful addition of hairbrushes tucked into the folded-back sheet for a wonderfully ouch-filled experience.

Apple-pie beds reached their zenith during Halloween, but that is a story for another day!

February 27, 2009

...I was getting ready to post a little piece about apple-pie beds, when I received a few Lovedale pictures from Nikesh. This one is taken from Large Hall with a view out over the lawn, a section of Middle Flats and the gymnasium visible in the background. Notice the little patch on the front lawn? That's where this statue reigned for many years.

The cypress trees in the picture caught my eye. Now, there are three woodsy fragrances I will always associate with Lovedale. Eucalyptus, Jacaranda, and Cypress; this picture brought the latter right back. It looks like the trees may have been trimmed a bit - which, as you will see, is a swingin' pity.

When was the last time you swung from a tree?

In the three-week run-up to Founders (sans classes of any sort) , we would practice our PT drills on Middle Flats. If you timed it right and got to practice early, you could grab the low branches from the top of the slope and swing all the way down to the path that led to Middle Flats.

Wheee! Eat your heart out, Tarzan!

Of course, where there's a tree and a slope and an often wayward trajectory - there's bound to be a sudden - and muddy - skid to a stop. You could always spot a swinger - so to speak. Their dusty phys-ed uniforms, decorated with spare bits of pinecone and crushed pine needles, would stare right back at you during elaborate PT formations. Did I ever succumb to the branches? That's a state secret...

The Stepmom goes ballistic and smashes the mirror. I can confirm mine is, in fact, intact. It doesn't dare to respond to my question.

Then there was Evita, in the 11th grade. Directed by my classmate Il Maestro. I was in the chorus (again! always the chorus!) and can still sing a mean Don't Cry For Me Argentina- a song actually sung by the female lead. I can actually sing almost all the songs from this musical - which wins me a lot of friends and makes me a popular party guest. Really.

The oddest is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat- a musical I wasn't even a part of in 7th grade. I remember seeing the lyrics (a classmate's script - for about an hour). Why is it then that I can remember several songs? The narrator starts off with:

Way, way, back - many centuries agoNot long after the Bible beganJacob lived in the land of CanaanA fine example of a family manJacob! Jacob and Sons...

See what I mean? It's mystifying. After Potiphar rages at him...Joseph goes on to wail in jail (clever rhyme thrown in for effect)..while trying to interpret a dream:

Sad to say your dream is notThe kind of dream I'd like to getPharaoh has it in for you,Your execution date is setDon't rely on all I said I sawIt's just that I have not been wrong before

high up in the hills

Come spend time with me...

...high up in the blue hills of Southern India...and within the open spaces of Lawrence School, Lovedale. This boarding school is over 150 years old; it is where I spent nine years of my life - grades 4-12. Lovedale is an endless fount of stories...and I hope you enjoy reading mine! Names of teachers and students have almost all been changed to protect the privacy of innocents.